Spring
by omishiloh
Summary: At last she understood her heart.


Author's Note: Seeing all my old writing does a great deal inspiring me, I confess. So does the thunder rolling outside my window.

Disclaimer: Tolkien left out a great many details, and what a vast space left for imagination. I fill in the blanks; I do not own them.

Warnings: Slightly AU. Movie-verse.

Spring

 _"And then her heart changed, or at least she understood it; and the winter passed, and the sun shone upon her." - Return of the King_

Eowyn stared across the Pelennor, the so-named plains of Gondor. It was startling, to say the least, to see the charred grasses, there to the east; and still more would be charred, ere the day was over, for the burning of the enemy was not yet done.

Those who were only lightly injured were able to assist, but she, of sound (in her opinion, anyway; the healers disagreed, but she paid them no heed) mind and body was trapped in the House of Healing.

She was eager for work. Eager to do something other than remain idle. Her somber face twisted into sorrowful tears, tears that she did not want to fall.

If she was idle, she would remember.

If she remembered, she would again feel her absolute failure, smell again the decaying beast of the horrendous Nazgul, hot and sulfuric, see her Uncle's eyes dim and dry, his tears no longer needed.

By Orome, she would recall the sound of his sword clanging against the spears, nicking each one as he shouted "For glory! For Rohan! This day is a red day, a sword day!"

And with each clang, she would wilt, remembering with shame her eagerness for death.

There was no glory here. Only despair, and the cold darkness that refused to leave.

* * *

Faramir tread softly, so as not to wake the sleeping patients that lined the grey halls. The poor, tired nursemaids checked them wearily, whispering encouragement, or offering water.

He himself had just finished making his rounds among the injured Gondorians, and the few Rohirrim that had elected to remain in this particular wing (many of the others chose the rooms furthest away from the Shadow, and personally, he didn't blame them).

One of the latter especially struck him as remarkable, a young lad of about twenty. He was wearing a small ring, made, he said bashfully, of his betrothed's handkerchief and hair. That it had survived battle was itself miraculous, but it had also survived the healer's going-over - for they had taken most soldiers' clothes off to wash, cleansing off blood, grime, and who knew what other filth.

It gleamed in the light of the afternoon, and Faramir was startled to feel a pang of longing for long, golden hair, hair that grew warm in the sunlight, and the smell of long, green grass.

Where had he seen that hair?

He exited the wing to cross the square of the Fountain, only to discover a lady already in his traditional place: a young woman of Rohan. Her back was to him, so he could not see her face, but he could see where she stared: the fields of the Pelennor, where even now, he knew, they gathered the bodies of the enemy. It would be a long day's toil.

He continued to tread carefully, but more loudly, so as not to disturb her. It was only when he drew closer that he recognized the white muslin and white shawl, and the beautiful golden hair -

 _that hair._

* * *

A sudden chill brought Eowyn from her thoughts; a light breeze that brought with it the smell of leather bindings and the sound of careful stepping.

"My lord," she said, not turning, not really caring who she spoke to. It could be any gentleman of the court, but the one that really mattered to her was the Steward. He was her last help.

"My lady," was the gentle response. "How fare you? Is your arm well tended?"

"Yes," she answered, almost irritably. "But the healers say it is still longer until I may remove my sling." She shrugged her arm; it really _was_ well-tended, but the sling itched in the sunlight, and her arm grew clammy - not hot. She could not feel heat yet.

"I would trust them. They know their business - and well am I familiar with their restrictions." His tone, whoever he was, was faintly amused.

She could just feel the sorrow painting her face, and despised the intrusion of humor. Nonetheless, she had greeted him first, and must, at least, put forth the effort for common courtesy, if nothing more.

"Is there aught I can help you with, my lord?" She kept her tone cool.

"I would know but what it is you seek. Your face is troubled, and I know you have reason to be. I would help you to find whatever it is you may desire, if I may. Do not trouble, either, about cost," he added. "I am more than supplied."

His grave voice brought her out of her irritability, and she turned to look at this man who would offer her aid freely.

Solemn eyes met his and he immediately checked his imagination - surely he could not see the wave from his dreams in them. This was a woman who carried sorrow deeply, as deeply perhaps as his ancestors.

Light freckles edged her nose, and her skin was pale in pallor. She was not yet healed of the Shadow, and for a moment under the sunshine, she seemed cold. Distant. As a snow-flower on the mountain-paths, that flowered beneath the frost.

Yet beautiful she was: tall, nearly to height with he, and strong. She was not a wilting flower of the Gondorian courts: this was a woman who rode beneath the stars, who was not afraid of swordsmanship, who had not shrunk from evil.

Faramir found himself in the middle of admiring her, but checked his thoughts. It would not be seemly to not pay attention to the conversation.

"I would but one thing at present," she said, slowly. "My room faces east, as the Steward granted - would had he been able to grant me that request in person! - but there is no living thing there. In my home I nearly always had a plant nearby, if for no other reason than to remind me I am connected to Ea, the earth. For Orome does my House render glory unto, and he gloried in the fields.

"Does this answer you?" she finished, her gaze open and wistful.

It would be coy, Faramir thought, on a Gondorian woman, but on the Lady of Rohan it was sincere. It was also unnerving that he was not immediately recognized, but then, being readied to put on the pyre, and receiving burns over part of his face - t'would be enough to make anyone not easily named.

"I would grant this - I too know the value of earth. My mother had special gardens that my brother and I played in, while she told us stories of Yvanna and her people. Consider it done, my good lady." He bowed.

* * *

When she made her request, her mind had no other thought than to secure some familiarity in this fortress of stone. Yet as he bowed, she started.

His face - it was half covered in scars. Long, thin, and - she struggled to find the right word - peeling was the closest she came to - they disfigured the portion from eyebrow to jaw.

His raven hair slid forward and she fought an impulse to slide it back, and _that_ snapped her from irritability to astonishment.

Who was he, that he could bring such sudden awareness? Til today, none other than - Ara- she couldn't say his name for the embarrassment - had had any kind of hold over her heart.

"I thank you," she said aloud, pondering this inner revelation. "But who might this be, to make such an offer and grant it?"

"I am the Lord Steward," he said, unsmiling. "And I am pleased that you are so gracious. May I sit awhile with you, if only to enjoy the open air?"

Eowyn's jaw dropped, and she could not say more.

* * *

And for a time, the Lord and Lady sat watching the fields, each lost in reverie.


End file.
